Taking Down The Barrier
by Saby7
Summary: Sherlock makes John worry in many ways. But Sherlocks emotions have suddenly changed, and John is left to wonder why. Completed.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Bottom. Please Read (It's my sincere apology.)

John was constantly worried about Sherlock. In his mind, that was his obligation.

But there was something else about this time, something different.

He noticed it one day when they were getting ready to go to the morgue, due to a case Les Stroud had recently dumped on their plates. Sherlock was avoiding John's gaze. He could barely look in his direction. He hardly spoke unless spoken to, which was most alarming, and he even said John could leave halfway through because he was "unneeded."

Something was troubling Sherlock, but John couldn't figure out what.

John had been quite alone for the past few days. Sherlock was gone for almost the full day, and would come back late at night, only to play his violin and retire to his bed.

It wasn't strange that Sherlock should be out at odd hours, since he went wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased, but to block out John, and hardly whisper a word to him wasn't usual.

John had tried, but he couldn't get near him. There was no way to break the sudden barrier that blocked him out, no matter what he did.

Mycroft let out a wholehearted laugh.

"Cheer? You can't cheer him up! He doesn't _do_ cheer."

John's fingers were tapping anxiously on the table. It was bad enough that he had to consult Mycroft in the first place, but to see him laughing about such a serious matter to him was even worse. He was all to eager to push back his chair and walk out the café door.

"Yes. What can I do to cheer him up?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"He's probably just being Sherlock. Its not like he didn't do this with me."

John tried to refrain from rolling his eyes.

_That's because you're brothers,_ he thought. _And also because you're a prick. This is different._

"Why do you put up with him anyway?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip of his coffee. He was amused by this conversation. "I mean he was bad enough as a kid, but at this age, I don't understand how you can bear to live with that man. You have the choice, why don't you just move out. You don't _have_ to deal with him you know."

John smacked his hands on the table with such force that Mycroft's coffee dripped down the side of its cup.

"You don't understand, do you? You really, really don't."

John got out of his seat without another word. He left Mycroft sitting in the café a little bit shocked by Johns out burst.

He expected John to be a bit annoyed, but he didn't expect that John would get so frustrated.

He was, after all, just playing with him.

Water was starting to seep in through Johns shoe. The rain had let up a while ago, leaving large puddles in its place. John didn't care, however.

He had been handling the situation well, just giving Sherlock some space, but it was slowly eating away at him- the curiosity, the frustration; it all piled up the past few days that now it was starting to show.

Johns phone vibrated in his pocket. He reached down and pulled it out, subconsciously wiping the screen so he could read it better.

**Cinnamon Rolls**

**MH**

John put the phone back in his coat pocket and kept walking, only this time, he knew where he was going.

Authors Note:

Really bad I know, and I am so sorry. I feel ashamed... I've had such horrible writers block lately. I will probably re write the entire thing again and delete this, so let's just call this my "rough copy."

This isn't the end; I'm going to hopefully have the second chapter out soon, like tomorrow or Monday.

I hope it was some what... 'Decentish' for writing so late at night...

I'm working on it no worries.

Thanks to everyone who reads this anyway, all of your comments have been so nice! You all are so great!

-Sab


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock dragged himself up each step of the staircase that seemed to never end. It was late. He was moving at an incredibly slow pace. Slow was good. Slow gave him time to carefully place his actions, forcing himself to think of nothing but what he was doing. If he'd only just take it one slow step at a time…

Too late. His mind had already started to wonder. Thoughts were bouncing in and out of his head, each one completely and utterly useless. Except one.

He let out a long sigh as he realized that he was now standing in the doorway to his living room. He couldn't even remember getting up the last few steps; He could hardly remember what it was he was thinking about while it happened, since it was all so extremely unimportant to him right now.

He heard a clock ring quietly somewhere in the house, indicating it was a new hour. Two or three in the morning, he guessed, not bothering to check.

Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and placed it on the hook. He was trying to stay quiet so he wouldn't disturb John.

John.

He had been avoiding John lately; avoiding talking to him, looking at him and thinking about him, which was near impossible since every other thought that crossed his mind was John. The worst part was that he wasn't exactly sure why his body and his mind were making him act like this. It was something about the way John was-

His thought was interrupted by an aroma that was emanating from the living room. He hadn't noticed it earlier, since getting into his room quietly as to not wake his friend had distracted him. But he noticed it now. It was an easily recognizable scent: sweet, with a hint of bitterness. _Cinnamon, _Cassia to be exact.

_Strange_, Sherlock thought. He didn't recall having cinnamon in the house before.

He turned his body around and looked towards the lamplight.

John was passed out on his chair with a bowl of cinnamon rolls on the table and a book in his lap.

Sherlock knelt down beside his friend, breathing in the delicious fragrance of one of his few desired foods.

"Ah John, Mycroft must have told you. Only he could have known." Sherlock muttered, his face so close to the bowl that he could fell what little heat remained from it dancing on his skin. He kept his face down for a few moments as he quietly rambled on to himself. John's eyes gradually opened to see his friend's figure crouched beside him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. John was looking down at him with an amused smile on his face. John hadn't heard a word Sherlock had said, just some quiet murmurs, but he had seen his face glowing at the sight of the cinnamon buns.

"So cinnamon buns are your weakness," he said, laughing a tired laugh.

There was an odd feeling in his stomach as he watched John stretch and sit up. He still couldn't seem to find his words.

"It seems that way," was all he could manage to say, as he tried to stand up discreetly, and make his way over to his chair.

"Listen Sherlock. I have no idea what strange things are happening in that head of yours right now. The past few days you have been distant, and have hardly said a word to me." John said. Sherlock was stock-still. John continued. "You don't have to tell me what is happening, but you at least have to let me know if you're okay or not."

John looked down and remembered the cinnamon rolls. "Oh right, I made these for you today with Ms. Hudson. I just thought maybe…. They would make you a bit happier, though I have been waiting here so long they have lost most of their heat…"

It was his smile as he said the word happier that made Sherlock catch his breath for a moment. The past few days he had felt so lost. He thought the only way he could stop the emotions he was feeling was to put distance between them and himself, but it had made him feel so miserable. Being with John again, his feelings rushed back to him. But then again… sitting here with John smiling at him like that… maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Thank you," he said quietly. He reached out to grab a roll as John placed the bowl on the small table between them.

"And John," he said.

"Yes?"

"I'm okay."

I'm okay for now, he thought. Now that I understand how much it is I need you. But a day will come, when you're gone, so what will I do without you?

Sherlock tried to temporarily stop thinking about it, though the question was always there, waiting in the back of his mind. Waiting for the right moment.

John smiled.

Sherlock smiled back.

Now wasn't that moment.


End file.
